


The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by aronnaxs



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: ((it’s not as angsty as I’m making it sound)), (in chapters 9 and 10), Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rating May Change, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: Norrington hands Davy Jones’ heart over to Beckett, and pledges his loyalty to him. With his troubled past catching up to him, and Beckett determined to make him a vessel for his ambition, how far will his loyalty stretch?
Relationships: Cutler Beckett/James Norrington
Comments: 60
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> //turns up to a fandom 14 years late with a rare ship//
> 
> I’ve been re-watching the potc movies and james norrington has me like *hearteyes*, I never realised what an intriguing character he was before. I was kinda surprised that there weren’t more beckett/norrington stories bc that power dynamic is sooo nice. so here I am

The heart is still throbbing as it sits in the palm of his white-gloved hand. Beckett’s fingers close a little around the chambers, enough to squeeze the fleshy mass. Maybe it is his imagination, addled from the hot sun and a parched throat, but Norrington hears a skip in the pulse. Beckett smiles. “Remarkable,” he breathes.

He sets it down on his desk, the beating making an ugly noise against the wood. Norrington’s eyes draw away to the letters beside it. His name is already written in his own hand. All it needs is Beckett’s seal, the final stamp towards his freedom. To think that months of physical toil and bitter hatred could have been avoided with this one flourishing signature. “I’ve won my commission as a privateer?” he presses.

Beckett keeps smiling in that same way. He slowly takes off his gloves and sets them neatly in a drawer. “I barely recognised you. Is that your old uniform you wear in rancid tatters, Commodore?” he asks. The old title makes Norrington’s chest draw tight.

“It’s been a long while since I held that title, sir.”

“Not so long.” Beckett glances at the letters, only one mark away from giving Norrington back the life ripped from him. He fingers through them. He knows that this is the other heart he holds in his hand. All he has to do is close his fist. “You were a good man, Norrington. But I cannot commission you as a privateer.”

Norrington flushes. “Sir -“ he begins, then bites his tongue. There is enough of the gentleman left in him not to make a scene in the governor’s office. Beckett sees his struggle, purses his lips in amusement.

“I cannot commission you as a privateer, because I can do better than that. If you pledge your loyalty to me, then I can raise you higher than where you were before the hurricane blew you from the map.”

Norrington remains silent. A privateer gives him a slacker leash. But Beckett’s patronage means his fist permanently about him. Those cold grey eyes watch him as if they already know his answer. “Do you pledge your loyalty to me?” he asks softly.

Norrington lowers his gaze.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Beckett winds the quill leisurely through his fingers, pausing to dip it in the inkwell. He hesitates. The armed guard is still waiting at the door. They had marched Norrington up to Fort Charles as if they had never known him, as if he were a common criminal. “See Mr. Norrington to a bath,” Beckett orders. “And I will see what I can do here.”

Norrington is again escorted from the room. He turns at the door to meet Beckett’s eyes. He waits, the quill in hand, the heart still pulsing on the desk.

He smiles.


	2. Damocles

They cut and shear away at the matted tangles in his hair. They come out in clumps, falling into his lap. Norrington stares at them and brushes them off. Now he is back in the civilisation of Port Royal, he is ashamed that he has let himself get this way. For so long, he has been contented to hide behind the unruly and ragged appearance of a penniless drunk. It had been easier like that. The grime and smut of Tortuga had rotted away his uniform, and clawed its way over skin and bone. On that distant island, he had begun to fade into anonymity, free from memory and duty.

It had been the first time in his life he had been free from anything.

And this is what he had let that liberty do to him.

The steam of the bath is still scalding him. It has been too long since he has felt hot water. Weeks of dirt and sweat and salt and blood have been scrubbed from him until his skin feels raw. Had he thought it would reveal the man below? No, he is too far gone for that now. Whatever sits here now is a mismatch of who sailed into that hurricane and who emerged from it.

Beckett’s servants are still preening him when the man himself appears. He looks down at him with the gaze of someone chastising a child. Norrington does not meet his eyes. “You still look as though you have been disinterred,” he says. “How could you let yourself get this way?” He idly lifts his discarded clothes with the tip of his cane. “I would have these burned, and see you in something more befitting.”

Norrington cannot disagree. Distrustful of what he himself might do with it, he has overturned his fate over to Beckett. Whether or not that is the right thing to do is still in the air. But only Beckett can sign the letters which will release him as a privateer.

He appraises him with a quaintly tilted head. “Make sure he doesn’t look as though he has crawled from a gutter,” he smiles. “He is dining with me tonight.”

His servants bow in acquiescence. Norrington wonders if he will be but one more of them. As Beckett starts to leave, he finds his voice. “Have I won my commission, sir?” he asks.

Beckett pauses. Norrington realises, troublingly, that he cannot read anything in those eyes anymore. “Dine with me, and we shall talk,” he says simply.

* * *

“I knew there was a man yet in you. Beneath the animal.”

Norrington has thought, maybe hoped, that there would be more here. But, as he steps into the room, he sees it is only Beckett at the head of his table. Mercer, Beckett’s scarred and dour right hand man, lingers at the door, and Norrington feels his eyes raking down his back. Beckett dismisses him with a curt wave. “You’re disappointed it’s just me?” he smiles.

“No, sir.”

“Mercer does not have a fine taste. It would be unpleasant for all of us were he here. Come on, sit.”

Norrington lowers himself into a chair opposite Beckett. He is acutely aware that he has been given a simple shirt and breeches, while Beckett wears full, resplendent finery - brocade and lace and velvet, deep reds and golds. He calls Norrington a man and yet he needs him to know his place in this charade. He has adorned the table with far more abundance than needed for two of them. What remains of a boar is carved up and swimming in gravy, alongside mountains of pies and vegetables. It looks like venison which sits beside a platter of mackerel, but Norrington cannot guess where he has procured that. Closest to him, a stack of bread and pastries has been arranged into a pleasant fan shape. It all makes Norrington’s stomach tighten. He has not supped more than rum and ship’s biscuit for days.

Beckett smiles at him across the tableau. He pours tea, infusing the air with the sharp tang of lemon. One, two, three lumps of sugar he drops into his own china cup. His spoon clinks loudly in the heavy silence. “You don’t need my permission, Norrington,” he says. “You’re my guest.”

There is enough restraint in him not to devour it all like the animal Beckett thinks he has become. He carefully serves himself under the lord’s watchful eye, gut growling. “I had given you up for dead,” Beckett says, sipping from his tea. “I had heard of your ventures with Sparrow, and the quest for cursed Aztec gold. It’s a pity you let that villain get away. Still, I admire the audacity of a man who pursues a pirate through a typhoon.”

Norrington stays silent. The mark of that humiliation still lingers at his throat, like a lodged bullet. He had been a fool to press his ship into the storm, and yet he had been blinded by obsession and the demands of duty. He had allowed it to become personal; a witless motive. Emerging, battered and lacerated by the winds, he had felt stripped to the bone, unable to return to what he had left. For Beckett to paint it as though glorious art makes that knot draw tighter.

“And yet,” he continues, “you came to serve under that same man. You vanished after that hurricane, languished at Tortuga, and then, leapt at the opportunity to be a mere deckhand on the Black Pearl. Hadn’t they already taken everything from you? And still you signed your name away to them.”

Norrington tries to swallow. “It was a way off the island,” he manages.

“Well, it is a trifle now. You stole away the letters and the heart, and made the right choice.” He looks towards his desk, where the heart has been stowed away under lock and key. But to steal it from Lord Beckett’s office, to risk the knife of Mercer, would be as difficult as wresting it from Isla Cruces again. “I wanted to thank you for doing so, Norrington. Do you realise what we now possess?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With Jones’ heart, we have command of the seas. And with it, the means to wipe out piracy. A goal we both share, yes?”

Norrington inclines his head in a way he hopes is committed, but feels dangerously ambivalent.

“You were once the scourge of piracy. I would make you so again.” There is a long pause, Beckett’s eyes uncomfortably sharp upon him. He feels he is being weighed, every decision and choice that has led him here to this dining table. Beckett is a man whose power comes from his money and position. He offers no physical threat as so many who Norrington has faced, but he doesn’t need to. He could sweep all this away with one wave of his soft hands. Or he could build it up.

He sets down his cup, and leans forward. A whole table separates them, but somehow, he feels so close. “We met once, do you remember?” he asks. Water suddenly seem to be around Norrington’s lungs. He does his best not to choke. He looks up and meets cold grey eyes. Beckett searches him for recognition. “It was at Portsmouth eight years ago. We spoke at length. I said how I might be your patron one day. Now, I should make good on that. I would have you at my side for the coming war.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“You agree so handsomely with me.” He is building to something, setting the scene like a dramatist. Norrington imagines he must get satisfaction from such suspense. “I believe a promotion is in order,” he says. “After all you have done for the Crown. And for me. I would call you Admiral.”

It cuts a chill up his spine. Why should it? He has served his way through the ranks of the Royal Navy. He has proved he is more than just a legacy of what his father had been. Lieutenant, captain, commodore... The titles had come with great honour and sweat and blood. And yet he had let them slip through his fingers with every bottle at Tortuga, every memory of his failure. Honour is a faint concept, the flimsiest of things. And to be offered the Admiralty by Lord Beckett, as a hunter may scatter food above a trap...

He hesitates for too long. Beckett must surely feel the war in his heart.

“It is not something for you to accept or reject. You will be my Admiral, and for it, I should return something to you.”

He rises from the table and crosses to his desk. Norrington hopes he is not going to thrust the heart back into his arms. He does not trust himself to do the right thing with it. The boundaries of the ‘right thing’ have become hazy.

But Beckett returns with something quite different. Norrington gets to his feet as if in a trance.

The sword is just as he remembers it, though it has been an age since he held it. Beckett has kept it in its sheath, decorated with fine gold whorls and leather ornament. For a moment, he is back at his promotion ceremony, being presented with the weapon, before his world tilted into chaos. His throat binds up tight. Beckett sets the sword gently into his hands. He lingers, looking up at him, close enough for Norrington to smell the rose water and powder upon him. It conjures up another memory, just as cutting.

He steps back, with the sword in his grasp. The blade is polished and shining, no trace of the blood it has spilled. He weighs it again in his hand. A man’s sword is an extension of his own arm, like blood and flesh. This is more. It is a symbol of his redemption, if that is what he wishes. With it, he could erase the shame that has been darkening him.

In his movements, he has manoeuvred the blade so it points towards Beckett. Norrington pauses. But, unmoved, Beckett lays a hand upon the flat of it. “A fine sword, Admiral,” he utters. He looks up at Norrington, and he knows he has him in his palm. Norrington lowers the weapon and inclines his head.

“You honour me, my lord,” he says.

He doesn’t have to look at Beckett to know the smile upon his mouth. “Come,” he says. “Sit and eat, and we shall talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I’m playing,,, a little fast and loose with the canon sorry ~~
> 
> I may or may not have written this as Beckett trying to deal with his crush on Norrington and going about it in weird ways ssh


	3. Patronus

1720, eight years before, Portsmouth Royal Dockyards

Norrington had always hated these stifling affairs. Even in the finery of his dress uniform, awash in feathers and velvet, he felt an outsider in the midst of the codes and conventions of the upper echelons. His father had always been the man for this, as comfortable on the deck of a ship-of-the-line as in the ballrooms and dining halls. Norrington would have swapped all of this for the forecastle in a heartbeat. It was sheer irony that his father was the reason he was here. The son of Admiral Lawrence Norrington was a convenient showpiece.

He contented himself with remaining on the fringe. His cravat was digging in to his throat, but he didn’t dare fiddle with it like some nervous schoolboy. He could almost hear his father now, chastising him again.

A panoply of officials were ingratiating themselves with his superiors. The headquarters had been bedecked with ornamentation in the hope of - what? - more patronage? - and the lists of esteemed names had been rolled out. Norrington regretted that he was high upon it. And yet, he remembers it just as clearly now, all any could talk about was Cutler Beckett. He can no longer recall why he was there, so far from his company, but no one seemed to ask questions. They only talked in hushed whispers.

Of how he had been captured by pirates as a youth, and tortured. Of how he had tried to search for mythical lands and lost his ship through nefarious turncoats. Of how he had been looked over to become a lord when he had failed his patron.

Norrington hated the gossip as much as the perfumed dancers and false pleasantries.

And he hated it even more for making him curious.

He can still picture the first time he had seen Beckett. He had been resplendent. Not an inch of him had betrayed the humiliation he had born. The picture of poise and grace, he had been wearing deep blues and blacks, his skin so fair and powdered. He had a way of smiling even when he was not, the corners of his boyish mouth turned up. He had caught Norrington’s eye and someone had whispered into his ear, no doubt identifying him. His lips had pulled into a true smile.

Norrington had looked away. If his cheeks had been warm, then it must have been the heat of the crowded room.

He had been a fool, and could not even blame the wine. He knew the cold ambition of the aristocracy, yet Beckett was young and fascinating. And when he had found himself face-to-face with him, he had been unable to pull away. “Admiral Norrington’s son?” Beckett asked. He smiled disarmingly, looking up. He just reached Norrington’s shoulder, but he had an aura of command every inch as cutting as any bull-voiced captain.

Norrington swallowed, and took his outstretched hand. “Lieutenant James Norrington,” he said.

“I knew your father by his reputation. A good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“As I am sure you are, Lieutenant.” He looked out across the room of officers and diplomats. “It is good to see another youthful face. And not one that is swilling excessive wine. You don’t partake?”

“Only a little, sir.”

“How very honourable of you. And very disciplined. I can see you are not enjoying yourself.”

Norrington lowered his head. “It is not my forte, sir. I am a sailor.”

“Then shall we go to more comfortable ground?” He smiled. “It is far too warm in here.”

The offer was sorely tempting, if only to escape the crowds and his superiors. Surely they would not blame him for accompanying this young aristocrat who they had gone out of their way to appease. Beckett looked up at him and for a moment, lowered his eyes. The simple gesture warmed Norrington’s cheeks again.

He followed him out of the building. They walked down the steps and into the empty, cool port. All others had deserted the area for the event, the quietest and eeriest Norrington had ever seen it. It was he and Beckett and the night. The other man walked alongside him and for some reason, Norrington found himself holding out an arm. He had immediately felt ashamed at the boldness, but Beckett graciously took it. He smelled of rose water and fragrant oil, the scent of the rich and cultured. They wandered without hurry away from the buildings, heading across the cobbles towards the docks. Ships waited in the dark water, their masts piercing the full moon. Beckett appraised them with a smile.

“Where is your ship, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“I sail for Port Royal soon on the HMS Dauntless.”

“Jamaica? The heat will be worse, but I imagine you will not have too many stuffy ceremonies to contend with. How long will you be gone?”

“Indefinitely. We are to be stationed out there.”

“An honour.”

Norrington could not tell if Beckett was being serious or not. He shouldn’t fret. He had no control over what others would think or say. He only had his duty and orders.

“Who do you take with you, Lieutenant?” Beckett asked. “Are you married?”

Norrington’s throat suddenly felt dry. He swallowed past it. “No, sir.”

“No sweetheart?”

“No, sir. I have not been blessed.”

“Well, I would not concern yourself, Lieutenant. You are successful, and of means, and you are exceptionally handsome. You shall find someone.”

Norrington was grateful for the cool air as his neck burned with heat. Sailor that he was, it should take more than such a comment to unhinge him. Beckett seemed unaware. They paused by the dock’s edge, and the man leant upon the rail, gazing across at the ships and distant horizon. Norrington joined him. “I shall have a fleet one day,” Beckett said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “When I become chairman of the East India Company, I wish to command the seas.”

“Is that your ambition, sir?”

“My ambition is to be powerful.” Beckett smiled. “Doesn’t it sound foolish saying it like that?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what is your ambition, Lieutenant? To rise through the ranks? To one day be an Admiral?”

“I have not thought.”

“Of course you have. Well. Perhaps one day, I will be the one to give you that title. That would be fortuitous. I would like that.”

Norrington feared he must be as red as a marine’s coat. It would be too easy to let the attention of this ambitious and charming aristocrat get into his head. He looked down. “You honour me, sir.”

“There are not many good men left to honour.”

Beckett cast one more glance at the sea and then extracted a fine pocket watch from his coat. He sighed. “I should really be getting back to the event, Lieutenant. It would not do to disappoint. Though it has been wonderful talking to you. I hope we meet again.”

“I hope so too, sir.”

Beckett smiled and touched his arm. The gesture stayed, his fingers squeezing a little. As he pulled away, Norrington acted without thought and took his hand. Foolishly, he bent and pressed his lips to his ring. If the kiss lingered, or brushed Beckett’s fingers, he could not say it was unintentional.

When he rose again, Beckett was watching him, smiling. There may have been a touch of pink to those powdered cheeks, or maybe it was wishful thinking. “I have to return,” he said softly. “But would you care to join me afterwards?”

Norrington knew what those words hid. And yet, he had found himself saying, without hesitation, “of course, sir.”

He had not. Circumstances had arisen and he had had to leave without catching sight of Beckett again. The further apart, he realised how mindless he had been. He blamed himself. He blamed Beckett. He convinced himself of a hundred reasons of why it had been his fortune to leave. All knew of the man’s reputation - his callous ability to sweep any aside in pursuit of his goals. I want to be powerful, he had said. He had attained it, at great cost to others. For that night, Norrington had been a naive youth, too taken with the attention of a wealthy, infamous patron.

And yet, here he is again, within a web of the lord’s making. The memory of that evening has never quite left his head.

He wakes the first morning in a bed of fine sheets. It has been long since such a luxury, napping in the slums of Tortuga or in the bowels of a ship. He has no time to enjoy it with the pounding which suddenly erupts behind his eyes. He presses the heels of his palms into them. He has a vague, fuzzy memory of being plied with Burgundian wine. It had been a jarring combination with the meat and sauces Beckett had served him.

It is why one of Beckett’s servants finds him, bent over and vomiting into the chamber pot. “Apologies, Admiral,” the poor girl says. “My Lord Beckett has requested your presence. He has sent clothes.”

She scurries over and drops them onto the bed, before hurrying out again. Norrington groans and tries to regain his breath. The game has already begun, the pieces set on this giant chessboard. He is being moved about by soft, white-gloved hands. But what else can he do? The flimsy shreds of honour bind him to his career, a life he cannot hope to regain unless through Beckett’s strategies. The other options are cast in shadow.

He lifts the clothes he has been given. They are not the uniform of an admiral. Apparently, Beckett is not extending that privilege yet.They are fine enough, the attire of an officer, but not what the man had promised.

Another shift on the board.

Norrington swallows down his nausea and dresses, trying to stop the unsteadiness of his fingers. Slowly, the man from his past emerges in the mirror. He is pale and ashen, the hints of a beard still about his chin, hands cracked with the sun, but for the first time, he recognises himself. He smooths down his hair beneath his wig, and adjusts his cravat. At the last moment, he picks up his sword. It has been laid neatly at the end of the bed. He sheathes it and attaches it to his belt, a reminder of why he is playing along with this charade.

“Admiral.” The girl has re-emerged. She lowers her head. “Lord Beckett is asking for you.”

Norrington breathes out. He assumes Beckett is not a man to be kept waiting, nor a man to ever be denied what he wants.

So he shall play this game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to fit this into the canon timeline was,,,an effort. and yet this was so much fun to write, can’t believe I’ve found my muse in pirates of the caribbean


	4. Damnatio ad Bestias

Beckett is waiting for him outside Fort Charles. He is sat on the stone parapet, dressed in deep black trimmed with gold and red. A cape is about his shoulders, despite the heat, yet he cools himself with a painted hand-fan. Mercer stands stiffly at his side, sweating beneath the low sun. As Norrington approaches, his eyes rake coldly over him. Beckett’s dark gaze is not much better.

“There you are,” he says. “I was starting to wonder if you’d got lost after so long away. Good lord, you’re very pale. Are you well?”

Norrington hears the condescending note in his voice. As if he wasn’t the one to ply him with rich wine. “I’m fine, sir.”

“Good. I have something to show you.”

He walks away, and Norrington is bid to follow. Mercer trails them like a shadow. They wander about the crenellations of the fort, past the waiting guns. The men on guard bow their heads as they pass, and Norrington is not sure if they do it for him or Lord Beckett. The long pennants of the East India Company hang from the walls, second only to the flag of Britain. Beckett has left his mark everywhere, and it is not only his enemies who shall know, but his allies as well. He guides Norrington down the stone steps and onto the parade ground, where so long ago Norrington had been promoted. All trace of ceremony has gone.

Now, Norrington sees what Beckett has brought him here for. The man even has the gall to turn and smile at him. Behind him, the gallows are being raised by a team of carpenters. This is not just one gibbet, but two, three, four, five... A whole panoply waiting for the necks of his foe. More are being constructed on the other side of the yard, a morbid sight to rival even Tyburn.

“Noxia poena par esto,” Beckett says. “This is our justice.”

“How many do you intend to hang, sir?”

“As many as it takes. We have to wipe out the scourge of piracy, and allow the seas to be an open market. Under desirable controls, of course.”

“You will deliver the message quite clearly with this.”

Beckett must hear something in his tone which he has been trying to hide. “You choose now to find your mercy, Admiral?” he asks. “How many men were executed under your orders, or held in your prisons?”

Norrington stays silent, forcing himself not to rise to the barb. Beckett turns away and surveys his empire being hammered together. This is not justice, Norrington thinks. This is retribution. He has heard the stories about Beckett’s youth, and his capture by pirates. Just as cutting as the physical marks they laid on him, one now named as a pirate shamed the man before his patron. Jack Sparrow himself had disobeyed orders under Beckett’s command, and wound the young aristocrat into disgrace. Norrington tries not to think how they share this common nemesis.

Beckett raises his head to look at the gallows. “In Rome, criminals would be executed publicly in the Colosseum. They would be bound against wild animals, or forced to fight. And Rome is our paragon of civilisation. There is no progress without blood. And by watching the executions, the mob gave their approval to the entire justice system, and to their emperor himself. We wish to make our mark, and if we cannot gain their approval, then their fear shall do.”

“Let them hate me, so long as they fear me,” Norrington quotes. Beckett turns and smiles.

“You know your Suetonius. I did not think you had a classical education, Admiral.”

Norrington lowers his head.

“Come,” Beckett says, “I have more to show you.”

He follows him once more across the yard. As they leave and reach the outer walls, Norrington sees men he once commanded. He had been their captain, then their commodore, and now, suddenly, he is their admiral. They stand straight as he passes, but he imagines he can see the shock in their faces when they recognise him. What did they expect? Had they pinned more honour to him than he truly had? Did they not think their commodore could be turned so easily into the sway of Lord Cutler Beckett?

Norrington regrets to disappoint them.

Beckett is taking him to the dungeons where he might be if not for the lord’s patronage. They are almost there when another ghost from the past steps into their path. Norrington’s heart nearly seizes at the sight of Governor Swann. He looks as shocked as he feels. For a moment, he seems to want to come forward and grip his hand, but Beckett stands between them. “Commodore,” he says. “We thought you must surely be dead.”

“No, sir. I -“

“It is admiral now, governor,” Beckett interrupts.

“Admiral?” Swann takes in his uniform, and then looks to Beckett. He seems to draw his own conclusions with that glance.

“Yes, now, if you please, governor -“

“How is Elizabeth? Have you seen her?”

Beckett audibly sighs, and Norrington cannot help but take offence at that reaction. He remembers the last time he saw Elizabeth, as brave and as wilful as any other he had met, upon Isla Cruces. He feels Swann’s fatherly pain at being separated, but he need not worry. To have even a drop of that woman’s moral fabric... She would never forgive him for what he has done. “She is well,” he says honestly. Relief crosses Swann’s face.

“That is good. Good.”

“Governor -“ Beckett glances to the side, and Norrington realises there are men waiting not far away. They draw closer to Swann, and the governor tightens his jaw. Beckett sweeps past. Norrington hesitates, but knows he can do nothing. It sets his cheeks to burning, to be dressed up in such power and yet have so little of it. He cannot still his tongue as he and Beckett descend into the dungeons.

“You have the man under armed guard?” he accuses.

“Governor Swann tried to facilitate the escape of a fugitive, and no matter if it was his own daughter, she still had links to her pirate friends. We cannot be seen to waver. Any who fraternises with pirates will feel the sharp pull of the noose.”

“I fraternised with pirates, sir. I signed on to Jack Sparrow’s crew from Tortuga. Will I feel the noose too?”

Beckett stops and turns sharply. Norrington nearly collides into him. The man does not step back, but looks up at him defiantly. There is no trace of a smile on that boyish mouth. Only eight years have passed since their first meeting, and yet the entire world has changed. Norrington wonders if Beckett remembers it in such detail, the way he had lowered his eyes and touched his arm and set his blood to racing. He hates that the memory has re-emerged now, of all places.

“I have plans for you,” Beckett says.

“Would that you’d tell me what they are.”

“Would that you’d not talk to me like that.” It is like a slap in the face. The raw frustration in Beckett comes to the surface, unhidden by any veiled actions or flourishing words. “Don’t make me imprison you down here, Admiral. You do know that I could, don’t you?”

And yet you won’t, Norrington realises, any more than you would imprison Mercer. We are both your pets.

He stops himself from saying it aloud. What good would it do? They both know it is the truth.

Beckett is content to have the last word. He steps back, again the emblem of poise and control. He descends deeper into the dungeons, expecting, and knowing, that Norrington will follow. Norrington takes a breath, and happens to meet Mercer’s eyes. “I would not provoke him, sir,” he says.

Norrington ignores him. He prays his cheeks aren’t too flushed as he goes further down into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you take your crush into the dungeons for a date 
> 
> this is the quickest I’ve ever updated fanfic I think, can’t believe I found my muse in potc fanfic haha. Thank you for the views and kudos so far :)


	5. Paterfamilias

For the first time, Norrington is able to escape Beckett’s clutches. The man retires to his office and his papers, and takes Mercer with him. He expects him to return, of course he does. They will dine together that night, and Norrington will try to forget the starving skeletons in the dungeons that Beckett has shown him. The lord is right though. He had imprisoned many in those same prisons, and bid them to their execution. Why should it be different now? Because it is Beckett’s cold hand adding them as numbers to the lists killed. The man gives them no trial, no reprieve; will only line them up and hang them until they are dead. He does it because he can, not because it is just.

With his run of a short-lived freedom, Norrington finds himself outside Governor Swann’s office. As he had expected, there are guards by the doors. He recognises them as men who he once commanded. It barely feels like he does anymore. And yet when he says, “Lord Beckett needs you at the parade ground,” they obey him.

Swann barely looks up as he enters. He must surely be used to these interruptions. “Governor,” Norrington prompts.

He meets his eyes, and relief again crosses his weathered, lined face. “Comm - Admiral,” he says, quickly correcting himself. “It is good to see you. Truly, I believed you were dead after we heard of the typhoon.”

He gets to his feet and clasps Norrington’s hand in his. He guides him over to a side cabinet and unlocks a drawer. There is a bottle hidden inside it, which he pours into two small glasses. “Do not tell Lord Beckett,” he says quietly. “To your health and promotion, Admiral.”

Norrington drinks it on command, but it feels hot and sickening in his throat. He swallows as if it is poison. “You honour me too much, Governor.”

“I honour you as you deserve, James. You are a good man.” He sighs and sets down the bottle again. “It is a folly for all of us, Lord Beckett’s presence. But he has been sent under the authority of the Crown, and the will of Britain must always prevail. It is not the king’s fault if Lord Beckett is -“

He cuts himself short, as if the walls are listening. “I am glad to hear of Elizabeth’s safety,” he says instead. “You would have made a fine husband for her, James. I feel obliged to apologise for her rejection.”

Norrington looks down. “She made up her mind, Governor, and we would be fools to try and change it. It does not diminish my affection or admiration for her.”

“She is a most singular woman, no doubt. I know she will find her own way. But I can’t help but wish to see her again.”

Norrington pushes down the emotion in his breast. He draws away to look out the window over the sea. They are still out there - the Black Pearl and the crew he had joined, at the risk of Beckett’s wrath now he has gained command over the waters. He feels the sharp sting of guilt to have orchestrated that. And for what? A pretty uniform and a hollow title. Redemption means nothing.

“Lord Beckett promoted you, I assume,” Swann says, as if reading his mind.

“He gave me what I was owed. I had his Letters of Marque to commission me as a privateer.”

“He gave you more than that.” There is an edge of hesitation, of warning, in Swann’s voice. Norrington did not come here to be lectured. Or maybe he did. He needs someone to see this twisted situation from outside of it, in the hope they can untangle it. Maybe he needs to be berated for his weakness and bad choices. “Lord Beckett is a dangerous man,” Swann continues. “Now he has given you your promotion, you are obliged to him.”

“I know how it works. But there was no other way.” It sounds false, a terrible excuse. He flounders to follow it up. “I could not stay as I was. There is no honour in Tortuga, or at the bottom of a bottle. If I could have just caught Sparrow -“

“Is it honour you want, Admiral?”

Norrington clenches his fists behind his back. When he does not reply, Swann sighs and returns to his desk. He could have been his father-in-law, and now he is acting like it, the paterfamilias giving advice and passing judgement. “I had dealings with Lord Beckett in the past,” he continues. “Back in England, when he was younger. Once he has his mind set to something, not even God himself could turn him from that path. I fear we are just milestones along that path.”

“I had dealings with him before too,” Norrington says without thinking.

“You did?”

Norrington nods. It is disquieting how often that memory has crept up on him. And with that, he cannot stop himself from wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t been called from that party. He wonders where Beckett would have taken him to further seduce him. He is not stupid. He knows what the young aristocrat had been asking for, and how little persuading Norrington would have needed.

He could let slip that secret of Beckett’s past; of how he tried to bed a lieutenant of the Royal Navy. And yet they would both be for the trial, as that lieutenant had been fully willing to oblige him.

“It was a long while ago,” Norrington says. “And only once.”

“And now we are both here,” Swann sighs, interrupting his reverie.

“He wishes for me to be at his side in the coming war. But our enemies -“

“Are men you have now served with, and who you respect.” Norrington gives the smallest of nods, the first time he has admitted such a thing out loud. His entire career had been dedicated to eradicating piracy, and yet now he has been at their sides, and seen the wrath of Lord Beckett upon them, and the rolling tides across the seas, constricting the world. The shame and guilt at it eats at him, like barnacles rubbing his skin raw.

“I do not know what to do,” he says.

“It is a dilemma -“

“Tell me what I must do.”

Swann looks at him across the office, and Norrington sees a touch of sadness in those weary eyes. Has he truly become this pathetic? To be reduced so low as to ask for guidance, and give his decisions away to someone else? Whether it is Beckett, whether it is Swann, his control on his life is fading away quicker than he can grasp. His mind churns up a horrid mix of reactions to that: pain, grief, humiliation, anger... He pushes it all down again.

“Apologies, Governor,” he says. “This is my burden.”

“It is all of ours,” Swann sighs.

It is a bitter truth. Norrington wishes it were not so, but what can he do now his neck is in the trap? He should test its bounds, but he has a feeling that they will not stretch far.

He had come to Swann for - what? - advice? Reassurance? An admonition that would snap him out of this fog? But he leaves with none of those. He is in the same situation as before, and his heart weighs heavy in his chest. There is no other who can guide him. Though he now bears responsibility for every man in this fleet, he is alone at the top. And what kind of commander can they ever hope to look to?

* * *

When he reaches Beckett’s office that evening, the Lord Governor is absent. Mercer greets him without looking up. “Lord Beckett is aboard the HMS Endeavour. No doubt he expects you.”

Norrington feels like a dog, with his lead being pulled tight, as he descends into the port. The Endeavour sits in the calm water, dwarfing the other vessels. She is a first-rate ship, the jewel of Beckett’s fleet. Her yellow and black-painted hull kisses the sea softly, the portholes hiding 110 cannons designed to obliterate any enemy. With every inch of her grace, she has another of destruction, a true mistress of the ocean. Soon, she will head the armada and spread death in her wake.

Norrington climbs the gangplank and onto her deck. It is silent, only broken by the familiar, comforting creaking of the oak. He ducks into the captain’s cabin to find Beckett at his table. A map is spread out upon it, the shroud of the oceans drawn in flourishing ink. Toy ships rigidly sail the paper. Beside it, an ornate globe sits in its cradle. Instruments of navigation are angled upon it with their points sharp, as if ready to carve and flay. A desk populated by tiny, painted soldiers is nearby. Beckett has an army and navy in miniature to manoeuvre and do his bidding.

“Sir,” Norrington says.

“Ah, Admiral.” He glances up from his world. “I did not summon you yet.”

“I -“ Norrington realises he hasn’t, he has only presumed so. He flushes.

“No matter. Please, stay. I enjoy your company.” He draws his fingers over one of the little ships, and holds it up into the afternoon light. Norrington sees it is a version of the Endeavour, accurate down to her myriad portholes. “Isn’t it remarkable? All of this -“

“Yes, sir.”

“It can all be controlled if the bid is high enough.” He smiles. “I have not told you the details of our plan yet. Come.”

Norrington steps forward so he is on the other side of the table. How simple it looks with Beckett’s armada commanding the inked waves. They are all beautiful renditions, true British ships of the line, assembled under the flag of the East India Company. All but one. He finds himself examining a strange vessel. Its small sails are ragged, its hull half-eaten by rot and barnacles. “The Flying Dutchman,” he says.

“Precisely,” Beckett breathes. He takes it from Norrington’s hand and holds it alongside the Endeavour, like a boy playing with his toys. “With Davy Jones’ heart in our possession, we can command him however we wish. He will be commanded to annihilate piracy from the waves. His ventures will fill our dungeons, and our brigs, and give us plenty of poor souls to interrogate. And eventually hang from the yardarms.”

Beckett smiles, and Norrington thinks of how similar he is to his fine ship. He is fair and graceful, and yet full of the potential for death and misery. He looks away. “Where do I fit into this?” he asks.

“You are my admiral. You will keep a weather eye on Jones, and do what you did best. You will command.”

“Under your direction.”

Beckett catches his eye. “I have been tasked with this duty. Your men have pledged their loyalty to the East India Company, as have you. I am the governor of that company. And so, yes, you are under me.” He lets that linger as walks around to his side of the desk and opens a cabinet. Again, Norrington finds a glass being pressed in his hand. Port is poured into it. He considers refusing but Beckett clinks them together. He takes a sip and says, pleasantly, “I heard you paid Governor Swann a visit.”

Norrington feels the drink stick in his throat. He swallows. “Mercer told you?”

“Well, I put two and two together when two marines turned up in the parade ground saying I sent them.”

Norrington curses himself. “Am I not allowed to pay an old friend a visit?” he hears himself ask.

“Of course. He was to be your father-in-law, after all. It is a shame how that did not work out, although maybe not a surprise.” He smiles. “Didn’t Elizabeth reject you for a pirate?”

Norrington grits his teeth. He has made his peace with it, for the sake of the woman’s happiness, but hearing Beckett say it, so detached from what happened, stirs him. “I don’t wish for any harm to come to Governor Swann. He is a good man.”

“We shall see.”

“No harm is to come to him.”

Beckett regards him slowly. He can get under his skin more than any other, as if he is peeling away all the layers. “You are in no position to demand anything of me. You are too bold this evening, Admiral.”

No, he thinks. He is not going to be shot down so easily. He drains the rest of the drink, and says, trying to match the falseness in Beckett’s voice, “I know what has got you here, my lord. You do not shun boldness.”

“That is fair of you, Admiral, but I -“

“I also know that you were captured by pirates as a youth.” Beckett pauses, and for one, precious moment; a moment Norrington knows he shall cling to, his facade slips. Just an inch, but enough for Norrington to press. “No doubt that gave you your hatred and drive. They make your natural enemy. And yet you made enemies wherever you went. Jack Sparrow himself was in your employ once, wasn’t he? He betrayed your orders and refused to deliver cargo to your patron. And thus, you lost out on advancement. Now, he makes your enemy again.”

Beckett looks at him, and Norrington realises his head is swimming a little by talking to the man like so. He is testing the bounds of this trap about his neck. It is necessary, proof to himself that there is some resistance left. Slowly, Beckett reaches out and takes the glass from his hand. As he pours another, his smile returns. “That is not exactly secret knowledge, Admiral. If you think you can hold it against me, you will have to do better.”

Norrington cannot tell if he is lying or not. Possibly Beckett himself cannot tell either. He hands him another drink and bids him sit. Norrington finds a place beside his extensive map. Beckett runs his fingers over the ink. The sunlight refracted through his wine makes it shine a morbid red. “It seems we share a past with pirates,” he says. “I heard a rumour. One hears so many that it is hard to separate them from the truth. You must enlighten me.”

Norrington waits. He fears what rumours might be spread about him. It is not what he is expecting when Beckett says, “I heard a young boy once fell overboard during a battle with Captain Teague and his pirate hoards. I heard he would have died if not for the captain himself jumping into the water and pulling him back to the deck. Have you heard of such a thing, Admiral?”

Norrington grits his teeth and tightens his hold about his glass, so much he thinks it might crack. He tries to act as aloof as Beckett had about his own past, but it is a losing game. As with everything with this spoiled lord. “I have,” he says rigidly.

“It is fortunate the boy lived. And yet, I heard his father said a dreadful thing. What was it?”

He remembers clearly the moment, though it has been over twenty years. His father, the gloried Admiral Lawrence Norrington, had pulled him, shivering and coughing, back into his cabin. His act of delight had dropped as soon as the door was closed. Through his splutters, so close to death, Norrington had had to bear him saying, “would that you had drowned rather than owing your life to a pirate.”

Can any wound be worse? Maybe repeating it with his own lips. “Don’t make me say it,” he rasps, and is disgusted at how quickly his defences have fallen. Beckett, the inimitable player, has moved his pieces around the map again. Norrington is another of his toy soldiers.

And yet Beckett withdraws. He sits back and puts down his ship. His eyes are on Norrington, but they do not rake and pull at him coldly as Mercer’s do. Instead, for the first time, there is a touch of humanity. Just a touch, but enough to see beyond the pale, powdered gentleman’s facade. “It seems we both suffer from imperious fathers,” he says.

“Maybe so, sir.”

“You do not have to call me ‘sir’ so often, not while it is just you and I. You may call me Cutler.”

Norrington knows he will not. There is no familiarity between them anymore. When he does not reply, Beckett gracefully changes the topic of conversation. Possibly even he, this man who delights in clawing at the weak spots of his foe, senses he has clawed too much. He pushes one of the miniature vessels over to Norrington, as a boy willing to give up just one of his toys may. “Come, Admiral,” he says, “I want your voice. Let me hear of your opinion on our fleet.”

Norrington sighs. And obeys.


	6. The Cord

In the haze of the mornings, Norrington’s thoughts scatter in half-dreams. He knows he is beneath soft sheets but, between stages of consciousness, his mind cycles through random memory. He walks again with Elizabeth about Fort Charles, her arm tucked demurely beneath his. She is even more beautiful in this nostalgia, Jamaican sun on her skin, brunette hair catching slightly in the breeze. When she smiles, she lowers her eyes coyly. But, even then, she had not truly felt more than friendship for him. He remembers her again in Turner’s arms, the way she had kissed him on the beach of Isla Cruces. That sweet governor’s daughter he had known at Port Royal had been so much more than that. She now commands men upon the high seas, her life and freedom her own.

He could not have given her that.

And yet he still remembers with an ache in his chest. Shame hangs over him as his memories go further back, rushing out now the point of the sword is inside. Beckett, handsome, powdered and eight years younger, touches his arm and looks up at him with grey eyes. He cannot help wondering about the consequences of if he hadn’t been called from that event in Portsmouth. He would have done anything the young aristocrat asked of him, and that is a bitter admission. In the foolish fugue that fatigue brings, he imagines how his mouth may have felt against his, how he might have looked in the soft light of his bedroom. He hates the heat he feels in his cheeks at that idea.

He turns over, hand to his eyes. Just as Elizabeth was not the first woman to have stirred him, Beckett was not the first man. Nothing has ever lasted, as ephemeral as the sea-tides on which he serves.

He is awake now, and cannot wallow in self-pity. He throws off the covers, and crosses to the balcony, hoping the sea air will clear his head. The smell of hot tar bleeds up from the harbour, fresh fish pulled from the water, an ever-present perfume of gunpowder and steel. Multilingual voices rise from along the bay. The sun is barely up, pink still clinging to the horizon, but Port Royal is already bustling. For a moment, he is just another nameless face amongst the town, watching from the outside.

It is Beckett’s voice, as always, which breaks it. “Admiral, I was going to send up for you,” Norrington hears.

He has arrived as silently as a wraith. He is dressed in as black colours as fits the image, astride a white horse. Below the balcony, he looks up expectantly. “If you are awake enough, come ride with me.”

He has appeared too suddenly for Norrington to gather himself. He thought he could retain at least a couple of hours this morning, to actually perform his job. “I’m not a rider, sir,” he says.

“I’m sure you are. I will send someone up.”

“I can ready myself, sir.”

There is no use in arguing. The poor young girl who had been witness to his wretched first morning back in Port Royal arrives with another manservant. Norrington takes the clothes they offer him, but refuses their help. She bows her head and says, with pink cheeks and a glance at the fine coat, “Lord Beckett truly spoils you, sir.”

It makes him feel nauseous. He sets the costume down, and dresses himself in clothes he has gathered from the fort, and purchased in the town. They are not as ornate, but they do not feel as though they burn his skin with Beckett’s indulgence. And yet, at the last moment, he takes the coat he has sent up. It is still not an Admiral’s effects. How long does Beckett intend to hold that string in front of him, snatching it away at the last moment?

Beckett looks him up and down as he emerges into the courtyard. His smile momentarily vanishes. “Were they not to your liking?” he asks. “I did not have you as a fashion-savvy dandy, Admiral.”

Norrington mounts the horse a footman is holding for him. “They did not fit as well I would like,” he excuses.

“I think they would have fit rather well. No matter. Let’s go.”

He starts off along the coast, and Norrington follows. He had not entirely lied before. He is not a bad rider, but it has been a while. His father had had him enrolled in lessons when he was young, yet he had never fancied it as much as the roll and dip of a boat. The sea is her own breed of mount, and needs every bit of respect and care as a living animal. And yet he finds he can keep up with Beckett as they canter along the bluffs. He stays back a little, avoiding the inevitable conversation, and relishes the breeze through the rising heat of the morning. That sliver of pink in the sky is being chased away, and cloudless blue takes its place. The waters kiss at the cliffs, a low, familiar crash. There is no one around as they ride further from the town, and the tranquility is quite pleasant.

Beckett brings them to a halt at a clearing. It has a view all the way down the curving arm of the bay, across the forest of masts and waiting ships. It is difficult, in this peaceful isolation, to think that they wait for Beckett’s command of war. Norrington will stand on the deck again as the cannons splinter enemy vessels and send countless souls to Davy Jones.

He dismounts and loops the reins about a branch. Quite on instinct, he offers a hand to Beckett, who graciously takes it as he hops off his horse. He uses their proximity to tuck his arm beneath his, as if they are simply two friends, and not... whatever they are. They walk as they had done eight years before, looking along at the harbour. “It is so much better to see them here, and not on the map,” Beckett says about the fleet, and Norrington thinks of how he had said he would possess one some day. “You can only get a sense of their power here. How did you find the Endeavour?”

“She is very fine.”

“Very fine indeed. She will never sink. We only await the Flying Dutchman and then we will be complete. You shall have your choice of commands, of course.” Norrington wonders if he will ever be able to proceed with that command. He lowers his head. “By the way,” Beckett continues, “I have arranged a ceremony for you. A small celebration for your promotion.”

Norrington swallows. “That is not necessary, sir.”

“It is entirely necessary. It has to be formalised.”

Norrington thinks of the promotion ceremony when he gained the rank of commodore. A day of honour and pride, not like this. “You do not have to treat me this way,” he tries. “You do not have to clothe me, and send me servants. I should not be so indulged while Governor Swann is under armed guard, and treated like a criminal.”

Beckett turns away. He does not like to be questioned. “I have been thinking about the governor,” he sighs. “He will not come to harm. I need his authority for the executions.”

“He has more use than that. He is a good man.”

“That is immaterial.”

Norrington falls silent. Beckett has stopped, and they are facing the coast. He can see the masts of the Endeavour above all the rest, the flag of Britain flying alongside the pennant of the East India Company. “What will happen when my use runs out?” he asks, the words tight in his throat.

“You should not fret about that.”

“And yet I have barely performed any duty.” This play of being pulled back and forth by Beckett; the expectation that he will be there according to his whims; it is wearing thin. He has barely been amongst the men who he now bears responsibility for, nor even to any ship that is not Beckett’s. “Why did you bring me up here? I have my orders, I need only to see them through.”

“You shall.” He pauses, then, with a light smile, “can I not simply invite you for your company? There are so few people here of any interest. Your officers, save maybe your Lieutenant Groves, have no wit or culture. I can understand why they keep to the bosom of the sea. And yet, you, James...”

Norrington swallows. Maybe there is an aspect of the boy left in him, charmed by the aristocrat’s attention, but now is not the time for naivety. Beckett would never offer something in one hand without something else in the other. And the informality of him saying his Christian name... “I am in your service, sir,” he deflects. “I am your officer, but -“

“But what? You are under my patronage. As you say, if your use runs thin...”

It is a bluff, and Norrington knows it. There is more he is saying, and Norrington isn’t sure if he understands, or doesn’t wish to. This is more than an Admiral’s uniform for the delivery of a heart in a box. There are depths to this he cannot bear to set foot in. He composes his thoughts. “My lord,” he only manages.

“You are my admiral,” Beckett says, “and I expect loyalty.”

“Of course, my lord.” Push and pull again. One moment, he is close to defiance, then the next, he falls to the rhythm of submission. Beckett knows just how to pull those strings.

“Good.”

They walk in chilled silence. The breeze is no longer so pleasant, nor the crashing of the waves. Norrington, chained to Beckett’s side by his arm tucked into his, follows his path. He has been reduced again to a silent showpiece to be used at will. He is relieved when they return to the horses. Beckett lets him go at last. If his hand lingers upon his arm, for a moment too long, Norrington pretends he has not noticed. He pretends he has not thought of that moment eight years before, the phantom of what-if hanging over him.

Beckett mounts his horse. He sweeps his cape about his shoulders, a spoiled child who has failed to get what he wants. What is it you want? Norrington thinks. There is an answer to that, just a breath away, but he would rather play the ignorant. “I have work to do,” Beckett says, as if he wasn’t the one to invite him out here. “I have no care if you dine with me tonight or not. Do as you will.”

He jabs his heels into the horse’s flank, and rides away. Norrington closes his mouth around the words that were going to come. What were they? A pathetic apology? An acceptance? Rejection? He sighs. He watches the fine white steed churn up dust as it winds back to the town. It is not long before he follows.

* * *

Lord Beckett remains absent for the rest of the day, but his spite is an ever-present itch upon Norrington’s skin. He finds himself constantly glancing over his shoulder, expecting the shade of Mercer to be there, or the cold eyes of his patron. The more he does it, the worse it becomes. He feels as though he has forgotten something, but can’t remember what it is. Between the two of them, he is not sure who is being the more childish.

It is the most free he has been since stepping foot back into Port Royal. He returns to Governor Swann and they talk under the facade that nothing has changed - he is still the famed commodore, Swann is still an independent voice, and they are both still men with their liberty.

As the afternoon draws on, and the heat settles in, he finally takes his place amongst his men. Some he recognises, some have been promoted in his absence, and some are new recruits brought in for this next phase of war. They are united under his command, but no longer can he taste the respect of that. As he carves out strategy and tactic with his officers, he feels he is doing so outside of his body. He is caught between worlds, his uniform permanently stained by his failures to himself and the service. The conviction is no longer in his voice, and he knows it. Every word has been planted there by Beckett.

And yet Lieutenant Groves smiles at him afterwards, and says, “it is good to have you back, sir.”

They have served together for many a year, brothers in this extensive family. He cannot believe Groves sees no difference in him. Yet he clears his throat and says, “it is good to be back, Lieutenant.”

Groves invites him for supper that night, or more, insinuates it with his mention of a gathering of officers. Norrington accepts because it seems the right thing to do.

But, when the time rolls around and the moon is out, it no longer seems that way. The lie is getting caught in his throat, so tight he fears he may choke. He no longer has a place amongst them, and it is foolish to pretend any different. Maybe he tells himself the untruth that he needs to keep his distance as their admiral. Maybe he tells himself that he is feeling unwell.

Either way, he finds himself in the Lord Governor’s household again, outside his office door. Mercer sees him through without expression.

He once more comes face to face with Beckett. For a fraction of a second, surprise (relief? Dare he think it, joy) crosses his expression. “What a pleasant surprise,” he says, recovering the touch of mockery in his voice. “I did not expect you, James.”

Norrington takes his place at the table.

Lord Beckett always gets what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh I am here for bi Norrington 
> 
> and I may not be able to resist doing a Groves/Norrington fanfic as I so badly need some hurt comfort with those two


	7. Charybdis

It has become a familiar play. As an officer of the British Royal Navy, Norrington enjoys the rigid formality of a routine, thrives in it, finds it somewhat comforting. It brings some order to what would otherwise be chaos. It seems inevitable that he has fallen back into it, now the world has upended itself. That is what he tells himself anyhow.

6pm finds him in Beckett’s household. He has become accustomed to wearing his finest clothes for these appointments, if only to avoid Beckett’s comments. Ten days have now passed since he emerged back into Port Royal, and, in such close proximity to the lord, he has learned more than enough. About Beckett, and about himself also. He has witnessed another side of his soul appear, as if from outside his body. The commodore he had once been would have been deeply ashamed. The shade he became in Tortuga was a stranger, and yet this man - he is not even a man. He is a pretty lapdog, Beckett’s hands continuously running along his prostrate body.

A dog only finds shelter at the bid of its master, though. Once the chain has been around its neck for long enough, it begins to forget its wild and free heritage.

Each day it is the same. He spends the mornings and noons amongst his men, consumed with the task of readying them for the coming battle. He does so from a distance, now the admiral with his allotted guards. His officers plan and plot with him, but it is as though he is another man. They defer to him with eyes lowered, even lieutenants Gillette and Groves, who he would have once counted amongst his friends. Beckett has engineered this, deeper than any physical position he could have put him in. He has sowed the seeds of their separation, made it so he only knows who he is when he is around the Lord Governor.

That morning, he had made him spar with the recruits. Lord Beckett seems to find new ones everyday, bringing them in from far and wide to fill the ranks. More ships berth in the harbour, East Indiamen to rival the Crown’s vessels. Some are trained, but some behave as if they have only just been press-ganged. Still, Beckett never fails to parade him as his grand showpiece. The scourge of piracy. The administrator of British justice. Norrington has started to notice the looks, Admiral rank or no. What else is he to Lord Beckett, they must wonder.

Because whatever Beckett orders, he obeys. He takes great delight in proclaiming he is their finest duellist and making him prove such a thing. It is quite unbecoming an admiral, and yet that is no doubt the point of it all. Beckett has everyone stacked in a neat hierarchy, the prerogative of the aristocracy. As long as he is at the top, that is all that matters. At least he gives him Groves and then Gillette to battle. They clash swords upon the parade ground, and Beckett watches, a fan in his hand. Norrington catches his eye as he bests them. Beckett smiles.

When he sits for dinner that night, that smile is still on his face. It seems to be a look he reserves for Norrington, a slight upturn of his boyish mouth, a little tilt of the head. “The fleet is almost readied,” he says, never losing that soft appearance of amusement. He loves to give Norrington these tidbits of updates, scraps under the table, but never revealing the very end. “We only wait on one more vessel, and then... alea iacta est. You and I shall rule the seas.”

He says it as if it is half a joke, and does not mean the death and destruction of countless. Beckett sits back and asks, “do you know the story of Odysseus and Charybdis?”

He does this often, a sidelong mention of myth or history to keep Norrington on his toes. “Yes, sir,” Norrington says.

“Cutler, please.” He sets down his glass. “On his journey back to Ithaca, Odysseus approached the lair of Scylla, a terrible six-headed monster. She faced the whirlpool of Charybdis, and, so, rather than condemn his entire crew, Odysseus chose the lesser of two evils and sailed close to the lair. Six of his men were devoured, yet the ship survived. Their fate did not long elude them, however, and a great storm was sent to destroy the vessel. Odysseus, afloat on a raft, once again faced the great maelstrom.” Beckett smiles. “Despite their fancy and legend, these stories are often so perceptive. Can we truly ever choose one evil, without accepting that one day, we will have to face the other? Can we truly avoid our fates?”

Norrington feels the sharp sting of both of those questions. Beckett twists and pulls these tales to get them to mean something to him, to them. “Odysseus survived Charybdis,” he points out.

“And faced many other trials.”

“Who are you then, sir? Are you Odysseus or are you Charybdis?”

Beckett seems to ponder it for a moment. Then he says, “I am Zeus, sending the storm.” A smile breaks out over his face and he laughs softly. Despite himself, Norrington smirks, and wonders why he does. He looks down, embarrassed. Beckett is so very different when he genuinely jokes, and Norrington cannot decide if that is unnerving or...charming. For someone so otherwise aloof, the man cycles through so many subtle moods when around him. At one turn, he can be cold, and at the other, he can treat Norrington as though they are equal friends, and not in this strange, imbalanced arrangement.

He leans forward and rests his chin on a fair hand. “I have organised your ceremony,” he says.

“That is not necessary, sir.”

“Don’t be ungrateful. It has taken me great pain to do so in this uncouth town.”

“Then I am at your command.”

Beckett lowers his eyes, and Norrington cannot ignore the taint of pink upon his cheeks. Awkwardness stirs in him. When Beckett reaches out and takes his glass, he has not realised it is already empty. That is his excuse for his lapse. “You fought well today,” the lord says, refilling it. “I enjoy watching you duel. You are uncommonly elegant, even for a British officer.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have a very fine line, and your swordsmanship is impeccable. I suppose that you learned young?”

“I was an Admiral’s son, my Lord.”

“Indeed. But -“ passing his glass back - “you have not battled me.”

Haven’t these last ten days been a constant battle between us, Norrington wonders. Beckett chuckles at his hesitation.

“I am just as worthy an opponent. You do not suppose a gentleman of my bearing has no experience with a sword?”

“You are not a military man, sir.”

“No. But, if Mr. Mercer were to be incapacitated, I do not want to be a target. I feel I should show you.”

Norrington swallows. This conversation has taken a turn he could not have predicted. “I have no reason to duel you, sir.”

“Of course you do.” A small beat. “I am asking you to.”

He looks him in the eye, and sees he is not joking anymore. “I don’t want to hurt you, my Lord.”

Beckett laughs. “You won’t hurt me. Come, James. For your honour.”

He rises from the table, and crosses to his desk. He unsheathes a beautiful rapier, its hilt engraved with gilt Oriental whorls, its blade deathly sharp and polished. Boldly, he leans down and touches the sword at Norrington’s belt. Beckett likes for him to wear it close. He pulls it out and presses it to Norrington’s hand.

Lord Beckett always gets what he wants.

Shod of coats, they face each other. Beckett’s office-cum-dining room is not exactly austere, but it is no ground for a duel. Norrington feels hemmed in by chairs and exotic ornaments. He grounds himself with the feel of a sword in his hand again. Beckett smiles and raises his weapon in a customary salute. Norrington responds, for a moment Beckett’s equal.

He allows the lord to attack first. He strikes forward, and Norrington knocks the low blow away. A higher thrust, and he does the same. Beckett is testing the waters, determining whether he will truly fight. Norrington is comfortable on the defensive, never failing to guess Beckett’s assaults. He is beginning to know him better than he had thought.

“Come, James,” he urges, “strike me back.”

“I don’t wish to hurt you,” he repeats.

“You will not.” Another cut and thrust towards his middle. Norrington repels him. “Oh, but they spoke of you as a great swordsman. I have seen it myself. Prove it to me again.”

He is harsher now, leaning in so the point of the sword threatens to pierce his uniform, trying to goad him. Norrington swats him away. But this time, he swipes his steel back to catch Beckett’s. A pleased expression crosses the lord’s face. He latches on to the move, and presses back. Norrington parries, taking a step forward. Beckett shifts with him. Their movements increase, flowing between thrust and defence. Norrington finds himself slowly getting more engaged, attacking closer and closer. Beckett knocks his blows back. He is a surprisingly fine duellist, able to keep up with Norrington, even if he is holding back somewhat in this fragile, enclosed room.

This is different to duelling Groves or Gillette. Though it is just a play, nothing Beckett ever does means nothing. Norrington can feel the tight tension in every clash of metal, can sense their chess game as they circle one another. Beckett keeps his eyes locked on him, observing every reaction. He knows he will win, even if he loses this particular fight. This is just one battle in the long war.

The thought spurs Norrington. He presses back, turning them again. The resounding clang of the swords is getting louder and quicker. Surely Mercer must hear. Maybe he understands it as another of Beckett’s whims. Norrington starts to drop his inhibitions. He treats Beckett as his enemy, without leniency or hesitation anymore. Beckett equals him, though he is starting to have to correct his guesses, cat-quick, as to where Norrington will strike. And strike more and more he does. To have Beckett on the defensive for once is a heady rush.

He presses low, but Beckett is suddenly there for him. He crashes his sword against his, pushing down, keeping it away. He looks up into Norrington’s face, and tilts his head with a soft smile. Heat rushes in Norrington.

He forces his weapon up, breaking the hold. Beckett staggers a little, and Norrington hears his sword upend something on the side. There is a smash of precious ceramic. He glances, only briefly, but enough for Norrington to get in again. Beckett fumbles the response, and catches his blade at an awkward angle. He parries, yet has lost his momentum and drive. Norrington forces him back across the room. He finds the shattered vase, and kicks it, getting it beneath Beckett’s feet. His rhythm vanishes.

In a flash, Norrington catches his sword, and swipes it out of his hands. There is the satisfying sound of it ringing on the wooden boards. Beckett staggers, his back hitting the wall. Before he knows what he is doing, Norrington has the tip of his blade beneath his chin. Beckett freezes, mouth parted, cheeks glowing pink. Norrington takes a moment to look at him there, his map of the world in neat continents behind him. His head is framed by Africa and the arching serpents of the Atlantic. His breath shakes a little.

Then Norrington is lowering the sword. He bends, and offers Beckett back his own. “You cheated,” Beckett accuses. He regains himself with a smoothing of his waistcoat and an adjusting of his cuffs. “But then, you were a pirate, if only for a brief time.”

“It is behind me, my Lord,” he says hollowly.

“Maybe not entirely.”

He sheathes the blade again and sits. Norrington regains his place, realising his breathing is still heavy. He has not felt this winded by the other duels, despite their taking place under the hot sun. Beckett eyes him, and the blush has not entirely cleared from his face. “My dear James,” he says, “you always surprise me.”

Norrington lowers his head. A long silence stretches, too long, almost becoming like a physical thing. Beckett shifts, upon the cusp of saying something more. Norrington waits for it.

And then supper is being served. The servants enter, and plates are set down. Whatever Beckett was about to say fades. He sits back, again the cold, untouchable lord. They dine together, as every night. The routine continues. Norrington tries to forget that he has had his sword beneath his chin, but the image will not move. All he remembers that night is the way he had looked at him, cheeks aglow, mouth open. He wonders if it that is part of this game too.

He wonders if he has stumbled across the one chink in Beckett’s armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> swordplay? more like...foreplay 
> 
> or something XD


	8. Carnivale

When the servants arrive at his apartments with the invitation to his own celebration, Norrington considers refusing. Beckett has held this prize in front of him for so long now that it would be sweet to snatch it away. For a while, he indulges in the thought of Beckett having to invent an excuse for his esteemed guests as to why their honoured admiral has not arrived. Yet the tip of the scales into Norrington’s lap would only be short-lived. And he does not want to know what would happen when those scales balance again.

He looks at the uniform that the servants bring him, and his mind is made up.

Lord Beckett has arranged the event in his own household. The parlour is not small, but with perfumed, corseted and uniformed bodies pressed in tight, it feels as crowded as la dockside tavern. Norrington stands at the entrance for a moment, footmen holding the doors for him. He barely recognises a single face. His promotion is being celebrated by people he can hardly name. They are all Beckett’s, of course. This ceremony is half his; a curious, perverted marriage between them.

He takes a step within, hand comfortably upon the hilt of his sword. Beckett has sent him up a beautiful, full dress uniform fit for an appointment with the Admiralty. Every gold button shines, every stitch of gold and blue is immaculate, feathers and linen and silk. It is the first time Beckett has allowed him clothes worthy of his new station. And yet no one turns as he waits awkwardly on the fringe of the party. Conversations jostle for dominance, entirely ignorant of all else. Norrington searches for anyone he knows, and comes up wanting.

When a hand suddenly touches his arm, it is as though it is a rope saving him from drowning. Beckett appears at his side. He is exquisite in his golden brocade and blues and blacks, echoing Norrington’s colours. Memory sparks in Norrington, of that night in Portsmouth. Beckett had worn the same styles, the same hues. “My lord,” he says through an abruptly tight throat.

“Admiral. I am glad to see you,” Beckett says. “I was worried you were going to abandon us.”

Norrington lowers his head. “No, my lord.”

“I cannot blame you too harshly. That is a magnificent uniform. You look very fine.” His fingers dance upon the buttons of his coat. They creep up, rest upon his chest. “I apologise I could not give it to you sooner. Yet surely some things are worth waiting for, even if they are denied before.”

Norrington swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Beckett smiles and removes his hand. “Come. I want to show you off.”

He keeps him close as he guides him into the parlour. There is a drink pressed into his hand, and then it is nothing but an endless stream of conversation. Beckett feeds him to the lions, giving him names atop of names of all those he brings before him. He feels as a new bride may, dressed up and tense with the anticipation of what is to come, but with no power or voice of her own. Beckett is the husband that has been forced upon her, an arranged union that benefits only the lord. He is flushed and proud of his new catch, and everyone shall know it.

He is fully aware that Norrington hates these kind of events. He had said so much eight years before, on a night uncannily like this. Beckett had been the centre of attention then too. He loves balancing those things in his hands, having people eat right from his palm.

And who are these people? The wives and sisters of his men, dressed in gowns they had packed in hope of cultured finery in Port Royal, and only now been given it. His officers are here too, islands of blue and white amongst all the taffeta and satin, but Beckett ignores them. They are too close to Norrington; they know him too well. He keeps him off balance by naming him only to those he barely recognises - the pockets of gentry who have settled themselves in and outside of the town, the ones who have tried to make a small fortune along the coast. Some have succeeded, some have failed, and are now getting their only taste of this perfumed, sweet life. Lord Beckett has invited them all.

Norrington looks to his outnumbered men throughout the night, and once, catches Gillette and Groves’ eyes. They are together, doing their best to drink up Beckett’s supply of port, so it would appear. He tries to extricate himself to speak to them, but gets no chance. He is only glad they have each other to be in the company of.

Beckett leaves his side for a while, but he is already caught in his trap and cannot escape. Figures he has already forgotten the names of come to him, and want to know of his exploits. Beckett has conveniently avoided his stint as a pirate - that is a nugget he likes to hold over him only when they are alone. It does not suit his public image of the sterling Admiral. He regurgitates the same stories for them - chases around Cape Horn, about the Triangle on protective convoys, long journeys upon the Atlantic, each time getting more embellished until he can no longer tell the legend from the truth. When did it become this easy to lie about himself, and to himself?

Beckett re-emerges to make a grand speech, grand enough that Norrington is glad that he embellished all of those details. He makes the new Rear-Admiral sound as though he has personally scrubbed the seas clean of piracy, a latter-day Pompey. Norrington listens to the praise as if it belongs to someone else, letting it wash over him like cold water. Even if it were true, he does not wish for it. Whatever action he takes, he betrays someone. That is not glory. That is not honour. That is a man who has tangled himself in a situation he should have been able to avoid. He had seen the squall closing in, and yet he had still set all sails flying.

Now, here he is, shipwrecked.

When the music begins and he is passed between women, guided his way by Beckett, he dances with them without emotion. They spin across the small space, barely avoiding the other couples. He has never been a great dancer, and it shows. But the drink has flowed too well for anyone to truly care anymore. At some stage, Gillette and Groves, tipsy and making utter fools of themselves, take to each other’s arms and waltz together. Norrington is grateful for their diverted attentions. He takes the chance to squeeze his way through the crowd, out onto the balcony.

The fresh air is a blessing. It is a cool night, a breeze blowing in from the East. Along the bluffs, and down towards the purple-black sea, the grass is shifting, the flags fluttering. Distant voices curl up from the town. This is the place Norrington has known for almost eight years, and yet it seems so different now, so heartless, so lifeless. He rests against the balcony and puts his head into his hands. For a moment, he is frightened of weeping. A wild plan springs into his mind, of lowering himself down into the courtyard, and running. A shrill laugh echoes from behind him, and he almost does it.

But then there a hand at his back. He knows that touch. Its owner walks around to stand at his side, so close Norrington can feel his body heat. “I apologise for this, James,” Beckett says. Norrington sighs and lets his hands fall from his face. Beckett rests his fingers against his elbow familiarly. “When I sent out the invitations, I had no idea that so many would accept. I did not plan to fill this parlour so tightly.”

Norrington does not reply, unsure whether to believe him or not.

“They are all blood-flies, aren’t they? All of them wanting to take a piece for themselves, and then flutter off. I hate to be around such people.”

“I cannot keep up with this, my lord,” Norrington admits. “What is it you wish of me?”

Beckett turns to look up at him. “You know what it is I wish of you.” He lets that linger, encouraging Norrington to read it this way and that. “Come, we shall be at sea soon. I know how you sailors long for it when you are away. I swear, you all say you can never love the sea, but you keep coming back to it again and again. Does it have such a strong hold upon you?”

He swears he feels Beckett’s hand squeeze softly. “More than can be explained,” he sighs.

“Well, we shan’t stay long.” He pauses, taking in the dark harbour. “Did you know,” he eventually says, “that my father wished for me to be a parson?”

Norrington frowns at the abrupt turn of conversation. Beckett glances up at him, and then back at the doors, but not even Mercer is there. They are utterly alone for the first time that night. “He said I had no head for business,” he continues. “Of course, I did not give a damn what he thought, or my brothers. They were a part of the family trading company, one that my father refused to let me join, as if I were not even a Beckett. I left him and my hometown, and set out upon my own path. I don’t think of him, you understand, he is far gone, but sometimes... I wonder what he would say if he saw this now.”

Norrington listens silently. Lord Beckett has been something of a mystery, even over these last days of close confinement. He holds his story close to his chest, so close that Norrington has thought that the face he wears has always been that way. Now, he sees the tiniest slip of a mask. He immediately wonders what it is Beckett wants of him now, yet this man, this lord, would not offer up his own vulnerability as a bargaining chip. “The irony is that if he were here,” he says softly. “I imagine he would love it. I would try and make him miserable and jealous, but he would adore this falseness and all these - people. I hated him, James. He made my life hellish. He, my brothers, and every one of my schoolmates.”

He has not removed his hand from Norrington’s arm. Delicate gloved fingers have insinuated themselves beneath his turned cuffs. “I did not mean to drive you onto the balcony during your own event, James,” he smiles, some of that mask coming back.

“I do not need all of this, my lord. This pomp and ceremony is so -“

“False, yes I know.”

“Then why did you invite all of these people?”

“I did not know they would all accept.” It is a lie, and even Norrington hears it. Beckett shakes his head, a man knowing he is in the corner and there is not much further to tread. “For you,” he corrects himself.

“I do not know them,” Norrington sighs. “I do not know how to play this game, my lord. For days, you have bid me to dine with you, and ride with you, and duel with you. I have done so, and you have given me my title, a uniform...”

“What is your point, James? If you would like, I could easily have you thrown back in the sea, hauled back to Tortuga.”

The venom in Beckett’s voice, arising from nothing, surprises Norrington. And yet he sounds less angry employer, and more...spurned woman. “My lord, I -“

“You have come to me willingly more than once, James. You have served me of your volition. You are wearing that uniform. Or do you deny that?”

“No, sir.”

“For God’s sake, it’s Cutler.”

A heavy silence comes over them. There is more that could be said - so much hanging ominously below the surface - but Norrington pushes it deep. Once they are at sea, he thinks, he will be able to clear this from his mind, and the leash will be slacker. He will return to the familiar hierarchy where the ocean always comes out on top, and no other. He prays that the salt spray will erode everything else away.

There is a knock upon the door behind them. Beckett turns, his hand leaving Norrington’s arm. “Apologies, sir,” Mercer’s rough voice says. “The ladies are asking for Admiral Norrington. Seems he left one or two wanting a dance.”

Norrington looks to Beckett, his body deflating. The lion’s den beckons, no matter where he turns. And yet when he is almost inside again, Beckett grasps him about the elbow. “James,” he says softly. “Dance with me.”

“I -“ He regains himself. “Surely that is not appropriate.”

“It is my event. Mine and yours. They dare not say a word.”

He should refuse. There are many things he should do. But he finds himself returning to the parlour with Beckett at his side, ignoring the look that Mercer gives him as he passes.

Groves and Gillette are still in the midst of the crowd, unable to keep their time amongst the other couples. Norrington ignores the look Groves gives him as he takes his place with Beckett. “I’ll even let you lead,” Beckett teases, and lifts Norrington’s hand to his shoulder. With his other, he entwines their fingers together. The difference in their heights means Beckett has to look up at him, and so close, it is impossible to turn away. Norrington feels the heat coming off him, smells the expensive perfume, heavy enough to taste it on his lips.

The musicians play - a deep ‘cello and a high viola, winding around each other to the accompaniment of a harp. He does not know the melody, but there is no way to avoid this now. Beckett follows him, staying true to his word to let him lead. It is another duel between them, this time not with swords, yet the same delicate balance nonetheless. He feels stiff and awkward at first, too close to the other dancers. The floor seems to tilt and veer like the deck in a storm. But, just as he had fallen into the duel, he falls into this also.

There is a smile upon Beckett’s face as he gets what he wants. Norrington opts with looking down at him rather than at anyone else. Dare he think that a hint of red has appeared on those pale cheeks, or that the lord has pressed himself closer. He tries not to feel anything but the flow of the music, and he fails.

They move together in synchronicity. At last, there is some equality between them - genuine now, not hand-fed by Beckett - and it is heady. He steps with Beckett - one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, again and again - until it is second-nature, until he is doing it without needing to think or debate it. He is barely aware of the music swelling, nor themselves matching it. All he feels is the enjoyment of the dance - and the way Beckett’s hand has crept down to rest upon his waist.

He is not sure how long they dance for. More and more it seems the musicians are playing only for them. Even when a disturbance starts to ripple through the crowd, he does not take his eyes from Beckett. At any moment, the lord may turn, may grow bored of him. He wants to match him, wants to show that he is part of this game. The other dancers begin to stop. The guests are murmuring, turning from the dance floor. A couple are pointing to the open windows. Norrington keeps to the dance, as though it is part of it. Only when Beckett stops, shall he.

The music is slowing. They match their steps, though the crowd is dispersing. Their confusion is spreading like a wave. Something is happening, but Norrington cannot leave, not yet. Beckett moves closer, body almost against him. All eyes are turning away; this is only their private game now. When all the layers have been stripped back, it is just them left in the middle, and whatever they have been skirting around all this time.

Beckett stops. The viola and ‘cello and harp have died. The guests, who he had gone to such pains to assemble, have abandoned the floor for the windows. There is an ugly tension building. Something is wrong. But Beckett gazes up at him, and Norrington cannot tell if he is looking upon his mask or not. He leans close, a soft, gloved hand against his coat, and there is no hiding the pounding of his heart. Beckett smiles, and in a flash, he knows it - that heart in the chest, locked away in his parlour, is not the one he truly wants.

His fingers, delicate but confident, touch his throat, up to his jaw. A sigh escapes Beckett’s elegant lips. The heat of his breath caresses Norrington’s mouth, and a deep, dark thrill pierces through him. For a moment, he is not sure what he is about to do.

“It is the Flying Dutchman!” he hears Gillette cry from the windows. “It is Davy Jones!”

Beckett pulls away. He is smiling, still, his prize in his hand. He grasps Norrington’s arm and guides him towards the windows. Norrington follows without thought, without complaint.

Like that, the game races towards what he could never have avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every Regency romance needs a dance scene and pining via hand-touching, right? Soooo next chapter is called Wedding Night so guess what happens in that one!


	9. Wedding Night

Beckett, leaning against his balcony, the rolling curve of the harbour behind him, turns and smiles. How many times Norrington has seen that smile over his time in the lord’s patronage, he is not sure. It is a smirk half of mirth, and half of cruel glee - both childlike and complicated, terrible. Yet, for the first time, Norrington finds himself inclining his head and offering it back to him. Across the port, disappearing about the cliffs, the Flying Dutchman’s ragged sails soak up the moonlight. It is an ugly, awful thing, as ugly and awful as its inhuman crew. Such a horror should not make Beckett smile so.

He had even turned that look upon Davy Jones himself. The creature cannot make land, so they had sailed out - the two of them, three marines, and Mr. Mercer - and alighted on the rotten, spongy deck. Norrington had seen those who manned the rigging, trimmed the sails, mastered the helm, before. But he had been against them - a comfortable, natural enmity against such unnatural things. Now, they are his shipmates. The marines cowered back, yet Beckett had stepped forth and peered up at Jones with that charming, wicked amusement. Norrington had sensed the silence stretch, along with the uncomfortable itch of a hundred fish eyes and slit gazes crawling over his skin.

Beckett didn’t need to say anything, though. Mercer had brought the chest onboard, and with a flick of the lid, a snarl had crossed Jones’ face. The dread master of the seas had stepped back, the sting of being insulted on his own ship rippling through him. For a moment, he had seemed to stand taller over Beckett, who did not flinch once. Norrington, unconsciously, had felt his hand go to his sword.

But then Jones had removed his hat with one long tentacle. His eyes still burned with hate. Yet he had submitted to Beckett, as Norrington now understood all did eventually. For a moment, their glances had crossed. Norrington had seen recognition there, and looked away.

Now, his vessel already seeks out their pirate foes. Beckett watches it out of the harbour, before once more, its jagged prow bends and the waves take it back into its bosom. “She is not the finest ship,” he says, “but she will strike precisely where we need her to. It is something - to have such a thing under our command.”

Our command. There is truly only one man manipulating the ropes here, yet Beckett keeps up the pretence. He wanders back into the office and pours another glass of port. He is not drunk on it, not yet, only puffed and proud of his new toy. “To us, James,” he says, and drinks. Norrington watches him and is surprised at how different he seems from that imperious lord at the table just ten days before. Nothing is different physically, but, just as Beckett has been observing and analysing him, he has been doing the same. When he looks at him, now, he still feels the soft touch of his hand beneath his jaw, his fingers wrapped into the line of his waist. There was motive there, as ever, but not the only kind of motive Norrington had expected.

He should glance away. He does not. “You spoke to me once,” he hears himself say, “and you told me you wished to be powerful. Have you achieved it now?”

Beckett pauses. There is a long moment where he peers down into his glass, as if looking back through the past to that night Norrington mentions. When he speaks again, his voice suits how different he appears in the half-light. “Do you remember when I said that to you?” he asks, soft.

“I do.”

“I thought you had forgotten. It was in Portsmouth, eight years ago, yes? I told you I wished to be powerful, and you barely seemed to know what you wanted. Yes, I have attained some of what I want. And you?”

Norrington hesitates. What is it he wants? Not a day has passed where he hasn’t agonised over that question. A new answer appears every time he weighs it. Still, he comes up with nothing. Beckett smiles. “I know that you have your doubts. What man wouldn’t? But there is a time for thought, and a time for acting.” When he sees that he still cannot press Norrington into answer, he tries something else. “What else do you remember about that night? I remember you were quite uncomfortable with the gala, so we left. It was pleasant. But you had to leave, yes?”

Norrington nods. To hear that night spelled out again - aloud now, not only in the privacy of his mind - is dreadful, and yet... Daring. Thrilling, in some dark way.

“Do you remember that I invited you to meet me afterwards?”

Another small nod.

“You were called away. I resented you a little. You had been such charming company.” He is trying to make light of it, but Norrington hears something else chipping away at his voice. Beckett pauses, as if for effect. He has abandoned his port now, leaning away from his desk. “Did you find me charming company too?”

Norrington swallows. He nods, once.

“And did you - you -“ It is the first time he has heard Beckett stumble his words. He continues. “Were you intending to meet me afterwards, if you had not been called away?”

“Yes.” There is no use in a lie. Beckett takes a step forth. Does he expect Norrington to back away? He does not.

“Did you understand what it was I was asking of you?”

Norrington nods.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Yes.”

It affords him another step. Beckett, halfway to him, looking from beneath heavy, grey eyes. If he does not expect him to back away, then maybe he is giving him chance to leave. No. There is no choice in this. It was set in motion by that night in Portsmouth, an absence at the end of the evening that had to be filled. Beckett comes forth, still bleeding the same rose-water and oil scent he did then, and dressed in those same rich colours. “Would you have given it to me?” Beckett says, hushed, vicariously on the edge of it all.

“Yes,” Norrington breathes.

With that, he is there, before him. The lingering thrill of that night remains - still - even after everything else. It is a reaction he hates himself for, but cannot dampen down. It rises, rolls, threatens to consume him, when Beckett’s fingers trace up his chest again, all the way to his throat. “And if I asked you again now?” - leaning close, so close.

The first brush of their lips is barely that - the softest caress, a mere whisper of it. Beckett breathes a sigh, and it is enough for the ache to grip at Norrington’s chest. Enough for him to need it as Beckett kisses his bottom lip. He lets it linger, then pulls back a short inch. “Shall I take that as a ‘yes’?” he murmurs.

A wave of indiscriminate desire surges in Norrington. He grips Beckett’s arms and pulls him into a bruising kiss. For a moment, he despises the wantonness of the action, but then Beckett is leaning into it. He finds the heat of his mouth, the way it opens for him. He tastes of wine and spices. Deep from his chest, Beckett moans, and that shall be Norrington’s undoing. They part, check their panting breaths, and then kiss again. Somehow, he manoeuvres Beckett back until he is against the wall. Off-balance, the lord fights for the control, but Norrington has him pinned. His hands bunch in the new, starched admiral’s uniform, tugging, pulling. The violence, the need, in his kiss is making his blood race.

Beckett pulls away, lips reddened. Again, the painted curve of Africa frames him, just as it had during their duel. He stares, words failing him for once. Then, rushed, “you are not having me against the wall like some dockside whore. I want you in my bed.”

It is the admission which has been boiling away for too long. Now it has escaped his mouth, he says it again, softer, “I want you in my bed.”

Norrington barely recalls following Beckett through the halls towards his bedroom. He has not been beyond the parlour before, now he is thrown into the lion’s intimate den. Away from the formality of the office, away from the threat of being seen, Beckett turns to him and takes his mouth in a fierce kiss. He has to stretch up to reach him, leaning against his body and pawing at it with needy hands. Determinedly, those fingers get beneath Norrington’s frock coat and strip it off, then his belt and long waistcoat. Beckett paid for, and gifted him this uniform, and now it is his will to remove it.

He pulls away and grasps Norrington’s wrist, guiding him back towards the bed. “Lay down,” he breathes. Norrington does.

Beckett quickly strips himself down to his linen shirt and breeches. Norrington has never seen him in anything that is not perfectly neat and fashionable. Now, his dark curls are rumpled a little from his wig, and his cheeks have flushed pink. But Norrington cannot pretend that this more human look changes who he is. He tries to fight with himself, yet there is no resistance when Beckett climbs atop him and captures his lips again. He kisses back, open-mouthed, their tongues tangling, and it is filthy, and exquisite. It has been too long since someone touched him like this.

The warmth is pouring off Beckett, and Norrington finds he is almost feverish with it. Without his realisation, his own hands have crept onto Beckett’s back, and are running over it, along his shoulders, up into his mussed hair. Beckett arches himself into his touch, leading desperate kisses down his neck and over his jaw, sucking, biting, surely leaving marks. When he rolls his hips back into him, he gasps at the fierce bolt of heat, unable to resist the arousal.

With hands which Norrington sees are trembling, Beckett unlaces his own breeches. It takes some quick manoeuvring but then he is straddling him again, a vial of oil in his grasp. There is no hesitation as he slicks his fingers and reaches to press them inside of himself. Norrington watches, open-mouthed, too wound-up to complain about the haste. Beckett has reduced him to this - nothing more than an animal, strung along, prick hard and willing against his thigh. Every movement is torture.

Beckett gropes for his hand, and drags it to where he is knuckle-deep within. He groans in frustration when Norrington does not obey his urge to join. He keeps his hold on the small of his back, feeling his spine curving as he rocks.

It seems no time before Beckett is pulling out. Norrington wonders how many times he has kept himself awake with thoughts of this - almost taunts him with it - but then he is tugging at his silken breeches. He wraps his fist about him, spreading a generous palmful of the oil, and Norrington has to grit his teeth against the intense spike of pleasure. Beckett is sweating just as much, his perfect composure on the verge of cracking. Desperation simmers in him as he re-aligns himself, and sinks down.

Christ, Norrington thinks at the tight heat. Beckett squeezes around him, breathing hard, pressing his hands flat to Norrington’s chest. There is no affection in this, no feeling, only a deep, frantic lust, burning for too long and now all-consuming. He forces himself down, time suddenly their enemy. Norrington is paralysed by the stranglehold of desire which overcomes him, urging him to thrust up blindly and see Beckett fracture. A sliver of humanity within him allows the lord to seat himself fully.

An open expression crosses Beckett’s face, cherubic lips parting, eyes fluttering. He adjusts his balance and then rocks back, drawing a groan from his throat. Little gasps escape him as he starts a rhythm, curls falling across his brow. It isn’t long before he is increasing the pace, nails making marks in Norrington’s chest. He is warm and slick and tight inside, and it is taking everything Norrington has not to abandon himself to it.

“Oh, Admiral, come on,” Beckett snarls, tossing his head back. “Come on, show me - why I promoted you.”

Such an offhand comment, maybe a tease. But it drives everything to the surface in an overwhelming wave. For two weeks, he has been trapped beneath Beckett, eating from his hand, all for some flawed idea of redemption. He has put every one of these desires within him, turning his ambition into a shameless, anguished, wretched plea for help. He had offered the mould, and Norrington had stepped right into it.

In one, vigorous move, he flips Beckett. The lord ends on his back, open surprise crossing his face. As a broadside of need sweeps over him, Norrington pulls his legs apart and re-sheathes himself in one, fierce thrust. Beckett cries aloud, throwing his head back. That cry stretches into a long, wrecked whine as Norrington takes him properly. Maybe he is too rough with him, jarring his body, making the bed sing, but Beckett has backed him into this corner. Now, he scrambles to grip his arms and holds on for dear life as he is fucked into insanity. He moans as if he is going to splinter - no longer the imperious lord, but a man, frustrated and cloistered, who needs this more terribly than anything else.

People are going to hear. Beckett is terribly, wonderfully loud. Norrington doesn’t care. He holds nothing back, ripping away both of their defences until he is not even sure who they are anymore. He presses his face into Beckett’s neck, feeling the hammering pulse. “James - James -“ he sobs.

Beckett barely lasts a couple of minutes. His cries get higher, the pitch trembling on a knife edge, and it takes a bare few strokes before he is nigh on screaming as his climax takes him. The relentless pulsing about him - the knowledge that he has made a man feel _that_ _good_ \- brings Norrington close behind him. He is ashamed to say he has never come so hard before.

Beckett lays, loose-limbed and flushed, against the sheets. Norrington remains inside him as he softens, the strength leaving him. “Christ, James,” he pants.

“Was that what you wanted?” Norrington hears himself ask.

“Oh. It took you long enough to realise. I told you that night in Portsmouth.”

He finally wriggles out from underneath him. “You are cleaning us up, James. Move.”

Norrington does as he is told. But after he has cleaned them up as ordered, Beckett turns to him and kisses him, warm and placid, leaning close. “You don’t have to stay,” he whispers. Norrington looks at him, a different man it seems.

No, he thinks. I am a different man, not he. He has only made me think that.

And yet, still, he disobeys his command.

He stays.


	10. The Black Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry it took so long! but I had to come back and try and finish this, I really wanted to finish a fanfic for once haha

Norrington takes him twice more before morning. While it is still dark, Beckett shifts against him, silently urging. He uses the shadows as an excuse, and rolls him to his front. There is something terribly arousing to have Lord Cutler Beckett on all fours, mounted like a mere beast. For all his pride, Beckett moans into the pillow, grabbing at the sheets while Norrington feels every shiver and weakness within him. This time, he puts a fist to his mouth to stem his loud whines, but there is no hiding the teary, flushed expression on his face. Norrington tugs him viciously back into his strokes, and he sobs in ecstasy, matched by the admiral’s panting breaths against his shoulder blades.

The sunrise finds Norrington inside him once more. He hadn’t even known he was capable of it, nor Beckett. Norrington experiences a dark thrill at thinking that he shall be feeling it all day, may have trouble walking and sitting, as if Norrington has carved a place within him. This time, he has him on his back, long, slow, deep thrusts that have Beckett’s eyes rolling into his head and back arching in wanton pleasure. He winds his legs about his waist, trying to get him closer. Each stroke has a new emotion churning up in Norrington’s chest. He hates him, and desires him in equal measures, the lines blurring by the second.

And Beckett, lids fluttering, red mouth parting, sighing, “James, please -“, knows exactly what he is doing.

When it is over, Beckett lies with his head tucked into Norrington’s shoulder. Despite it all, the presence of a warm body is a sensual pleasure after so long without. He finds his arm trapped beneath Beckett, his fingers tracing his back. There are raised ridges all along his shoulder-blades, upon the curve of his spine. Norrington has seen such things before, has stood and watched as similar punishments were delivered. “Where did you get these?” he murmurs, not altogether convinced it is not a trick of his touch.

Beckett is silent. Then he sighs, and says, “from my youth. Pirates have always left their mark upon me.”

Norrington knows of his capture. But somehow, he has thought of it as bloodless, a gentlemen’s exchange, without the perversion of violence. He feels there, in those scars, the kernel of Beckett’s hatred, one more rung in the ladder he had climbed to get to where he is. And yet Beckett shifts him off, and whispers, “hush. It is nothing, my dear.”

Norrington leaves it. There will never be equality here, he understands. Not in any of this. He can not be what Beckett wants him to be - a partner, a pawn, a proof that one can always find a way back to honour, no matter the route.

Selfishly, he shares his bed for the comfort of it. When he awakes, the sun is streaming through the curtains, and Beckett is gone. Norrington turns over, squinting through the light. A figure emerges and sits upon the bed next to him; he is not sated, as he would have thought, but still feels that returning tension. Still, Beckett smiles and leans over. He is in a silken dressing gown, thick dark curls falling across his brow. In this light, he appears almost normal - a mistake to make.

“Good morning,” he greets, and places a kiss upon Norrington’s mouth, knowing he can get away with it. He lingers and takes his fill. “Why the dour face?”

Norrington does not reply.

“Never matter,” Beckett dismisses airily. “I came to bring you the news myself. Davy Jones has been quite the busy bee during the night. The gaols are filling up.”

“What shall you do with them?”

“We -“ He emphasises that as clear as day - “will take them to the gallows. We will send a message that all who sail under the black flag - and all who abet them - will be treated accordingly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It is Cutler, I told you - especially when it is just the two of us.” But he is still smiling. Norrington had dared to hope, in some vain way, that a night on his back might mellow him somewhat. Instead, it has added another unsettling edge to him - his cheeks are rosier, smile sweeter, yet mixed with all the cruelty he still exudes. “Come,” he simpers. “Get dressed. I can send someone to help if you wish. They shall not breathe a word. They are practised in secrecy.”

Just how many has he performed this act with, Norrington wonders. He doesn’t get time to muse too long on that before Beckett is throwing his frock coat upon the bed from where it had been discarded on the floor. “Come and dine with me,” he says, “and then we will go the yard together. There is much to do.”

His day continues as they all have since he was fished from the sea by Beckett’s men, except with one difference. It is no longer a game between them; Beckett has already won. He no longer tries to weave his spell over him through flattering words and veiled threats. That has been done. Norrington is his minion now, his little soldier, his concubine. He stands at his side as the prisoners are forced out from their cells, and watches with a clenched jaw as they are hung upon the gallows. This, he thinks, is the exchange he has made - for his career and grand life back, he has to bear this shame.

When Norrington had had some authority in this town, it had never been this cruel. Beckett brings his own brand of brutality, rendered bitter and cold by his vengeance. Norrington doubts there are enough piratical necks in the world to make up for what they did to him.

And yet the executions stretch on and on and on.

He maintains his submission even as they dine and drink together, even as Beckett dares to reach out and brush his fingertips along his hand at the table. There is a harsh enough storm raging in his head - he doubts he can deal with that and speak at once. He allows the touches, the coquettishness, silently, numbly. If he feels anything more, he will be surrendering to sensuality, and ignoring what he must do.

Only when the day is finally done does he feel the threads come a little loose. He has half-expected to be sent back to his quarters, but Beckett takes him to his bedroom again. In a brazen claim of ownership, he leans up and places a heated kiss on his mouth. “I have been wanting to do that all day,” he smiles.

“My lord,” Norrington utters quietly.

“What is it? Are you not well?”

“No. No.” Norrington steps back, extricating a warm and soft Beckett from his arms. Beckett frowns.

“Do not play coy with me now, James.”

“My lord -“ He is repeating himself, avoiding the inevitable. “I am sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“What I did last night, how I acted... It was not right. It was neither moral or sensible. I made a mistake.”

Beckett stiffens. That boyish smile fades from his mouth. Norrington can tell he is trying to decipher if he is jesting or not. “A mistake?”

“It was not proper, not honourable.”

“Honourable?” Perhaps now Beckett sees he is deadly serious. A cold, drawn expression comes over him, the flutter of raw emotion. “We can talk about honour if you wish, James. I rescued you from the sea and a shameful life of piracy. I could have had you thrown into the gaols that were once your own. Instead, I fed you and clothed you and promoted you. I let you live, and flourish.”

Does he truly not understand, Norrington wonders. Does he honestly see this as genial patronage, or is this still part of the act? The waiver in Beckett’s voice tells him it is not. And that frightens him more. “I apologise, my lord. I will still serve upon the seas, I will still command, but I - I cannot -“

“Cannot - what?”

“It is not apt to be... in the relations we were in last night.”

By the look on Beckett’s face, he would have thought he had physically slapped him. His shoulders tighten, his eyes darken, and his hands ball into fists. He takes a step back, paces, seems to be trying to silence himself, then cannot. The venom that springs from him catches Norrington by surprise, even after all else. “You hypocrite. You are truly going to stand there and tell me that you did not desire it? You are going to suggest that I am some deviant, some siren, that seduced you into my bed while you had no say?”

“My lord -“

“I did not force your prick to rise for me. I did not coerce you into bedding me. You did that of your own accord. Or do you deny that? Do you deny shoving yourself into me three times over?”

Norrington glances at the door, fearing Beckett’s raised voice.

“You enjoyed it as much as I did,” he spits. “Do not take your righteous tone with me. Do not hide behind your Articles of War. You fucked me, James. You pulled my legs apart, you held me down onto that bed, and you fucked me.”

When Norrington does not reply, he only grows angrier. Behind it, Norrington suddenly understands, there is more. He is anguished, he is humiliated. And perhaps there is a part of Norrington which deserves this. “You have to understand, James. You have to choose - either return to your life of shame, and I string you up as a pirate, or you submit, and you follow orders, as you were born to do, and you command with me.”

He has been trying to make that decision for so long. Now, he looks down at Beckett, and chooses his next words carefully. “I am not the only one with a stake in this, my lord. I am not the only one who needs it. You need me too.”

The cold truth at the heart of it all. Beckett does not like it being pushed back at him. He steps back, as if he can escape it. “Get out,” he says softly. Norrington cannot move for a moment. “Leave. I said - leave.”

He does not argue with him. It is an order - and Norrington obeys him like the officer he is.

As he leaves the grand house, he can still feel Beckett’s eyes upon him. He does not look back.


	11. Epilogue: The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

The storm is still rolling, the peaks of perilous waves kissing at the gallery windows. Every few minutes, the Endeavour will groan and Beckett will hold up a hand to stop every ornament rolling from his desk. He has been dicing with the verge of seasickness for three days - something he has not had to face since he was a boy. 

But all of that inconvenience is a trifle. Outside the battered frame of the first-rate, they are growing closer to locating the pirate fleet and their hide-out at Shipwreck Cove. Turner’s macabre trail of corpses has allowed them to sniff out the wake of the Black Pearl and all her wretched comrades. With every day, the wind turns more and more in their favour - if not literally, then figuratively.

It has been what Lord Beckett has worked for these past years. The crown of his achievement is awaiting just over the horizon, and it will be all the sweeter for the time waited. From the scars on his back to the humiliation Jack Sparrow poured upon him in Calabar, he has born enough to be able to smile when the pirate fleet burns. The marriage of his duty to King and Country and to his own vengeance could not be more perfectly aligned.

And yet, there is still something which nags at him more than the seasickness. 

A missing piece of his conquest. 

Beckett feels the itch of it and it will not go, no matter how much he scratches. And scratch he has on this long voyage out of Port Royal. 

Not once, not twice, but three times, he has brought Admiral Norrington aboard the Endeavour. Each time, it has been under the veil of tactics. They have discussed and re-discussed the same plans until Norrington could chant them verbatim. Beckett had feared that the Admiral - the only man in the fleet to match his own wit - had seen through him, and found his weakness. 

He had vowed to keep up the cold appearance, vowed to eschew the way Norrington had made him shout and threaten back in Port Royal. He can never let the man know how deeply he had humiliated him - not only as Sparrow had, but more so, another kind of wound quite separate from his career. 

He had dismissed him once, twice without a flinch. The third time, he allowed his hand to linger upon the Admiral’s arm, as it had that night long ago in Portsmouth. 

Once more he had pressed Norrington to his bed, slung his legs either side of his hips, and ridden him until he was sore. The ship had rolled and jerked, driving James deeper - and he had told himself he did not care what the man thought nor felt, only did this for his own relief, his own pleasure. And yet he had sobbed at his crisis, and spent the night selfishly tucked next to James’ cold, stiff body.

No more does he invite him to the flag-ship. He is far away, aboard the Flying Dutchman with Jones. May he perform Beckett’s plan - out of sight, out of mind. 

It is Jones who visits. The storm seems to wail louder in welcome of the dread lord of the seas. But, Beckett thinks, he is an old kind of lord now - the long arms of civilisation are reaching out over the waves, taking the crowns from the ancient ways. When they face each other, it is as though Beckett looks upon another dying breed that England has its foot upon. 

Beckett does not even bother to rise for him. “I did not summon you,” he says dismissively. 

Jones, dripping saltwater and slime upon the boards, sneers. His tentacles bristle. “I cannot be summoned,” he says in his thick Scottish tongue.

Beckett raises an eyebrow at that fallacy. Jones can be ordered around, just as much as anyone else. It is only the bargaining chip which differs - and for the eldritch creature, that is his heart, locked away safely in its chest. Beckett can squeeze and squeeze until Jones obeys like a dog. It had almost been that easy with Norrington. “Why are you here?” he asks, ignoring those simmering thoughts about the Admiral.

“The prisoners have escaped, your Lordship.”

The sarcastic spit of that title dulls Beckett’s shock for a moment. Then the full admission hits him. “How? They were safely onboard your ship.”

Miss Swann had been amongst those prisoners - still Norrington’s unrequited love after all this time. She and her pirates, bound for the Cove. She is one major piece on this grand board; even the execution of her father had not broken her. Norrington had at least bought the lie Beckett had fed to him of Governor Swann’s accidental death. 

Jones looks down at Beckett now, as if he is misunderstanding. Beckett hates that patronising, disrespectful stare. “Your precious Admiral Norrington let them out of their cells,” Jones says.

For a moment, there is nothing. Perhaps this is what failure feels like - a sudden void, a pit opening up. Beckett keeps Jones’ gaze, almost expecting it to be a cruel lie. “Why?” is the only thing he can utter.

A petulant shrug. “He chose his side, Lord Beckett. And it was not yours.”

All the foundations he has built himself upon seem to teeter. The humiliation he bore at school. The cruel bastard of a father he had to suffer. The lashes and violations of the pirates. The loss of his patron and respect because of Jack Sparrow. Every veneer he has applied to those blemishes, every salve he has poured upon those wounds - it all cracks. 

He grits his jaw. He does not lose. He cannot lose.

“I entrusted you to keep that ship for whatever use I deemed fit,” he hears himself say, distant. “You have failed me.”

“This is not my blame to take. Your Admiral spurned you for his sweetheart.”

Beckett feels the twist in his own heart - Davy Jones taking his vengeance for the chains he has bound on him. He acts as he ever has, refusing to let it show. “Return to your ship, Captain,” he says levelly, darkly. “You shall be punished for this.”

“What else can you do to me, Lord Beckett? You have nothing else.”

Jones begins to leave, dragging his terrible aura with him. Yet at the door, he pauses. He looks back, and with the coldness of a creature who knows the balance has shifted, says: “your Admiral is dead, Lord Beckett. It was by my hand that he died. He had no place on my ship.”

Beckett is alone. 

Suddenly, he is aware of every roll of the ship, every lash of the waves against the hull, every shouted order from above. His stomach churns at a foul toss of the sea, and he puts a hand to his mouth. Nothing comes up. He is empty inside. 

Everything has been sacrificed to this goal. The conquest of Norrington had been but a miniature version of the game which plays out across the ocean. The stakes have been just as high. Worse, Beckett has put himself as the bargaining chip. 

And Norrington has shattered the deck below his feet. In his final act, he has won. 

Beckett rises and crosses to the windows. He is painfully aware of the itch of healed scars on his back. With clenched teeth, he curls his hand into a tight fist. He looks out across the dark, churning waves, and at the white gash of the Endeavour’s wake. It goes on, no matter the turmoil inside. No matter what, they must continue. 

There is still the pirate fleet. They wait out there, to be destroyed by Beckett’s armada. In that, he tells himself, he has not lost. It shall be a fight to the death. He had offered Norrington a choice - the devil or the deep blue sea - and he had slipped out of his grasp.

Like his fist had squeezed Jones’ heart, his own chest constricts.

He shall not make the mistake again. He will not give the enemy a choice. 

He does not have one either. 

Vengeance has carved a hollow shell inside of him. Now, this is all he has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s done! I don’t think I’ve ever finished a multi chapter fanfic before @—-@ I’ve loved writing this so much, thank you for all your great comments and kudos, I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed reading it!!


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